...LA baseball.
Went to the Dodgers-Angels game again yesterday. It was a running club event so about 100 of us met at 10:00 am at a park outside the stadium for a pre-game run and Beer-BQ. The run itself was fun - lots of hills and offroad trails in the stifling valley heat, followed by ice cold keg beer, hot dogs, and the occassional song. Of course, we had both Dodger and Angel fans among us so we had to have a chugging contest between the two biggest fans from each team - N (Angels) and S (Dodgers). After two pints we determined the Dodgers would win because S could chug fastest. The chugging outcome was the same as the game so perhaps all you gamblers out there should try this new form of bookmaking...
The running and beer drinking proved to be just what we needed before marching up the 3,187 steps to the nosebleed section where our seats were. It apparantly didn't take all the spunk out of me as I somehow ended up in a near-brawl with M - who kept knocking my hat down onto my face in such a way that it hit pushed my sunglasses on the bridge of my nose and hurt. This is another strange sixth grade mating ritual of men that carries into adulthood. Cute. I warned him to stop and attempted to punch him in the stomach. We called a truce then he did it one last time. The sucker shot got my alcohol-dampened wanna-be boxing reflexes going and I punched the poor guy in the side of the head. It wasn't too hard as he was one seat away and my reach isn't that great but others claim they heard the blow and he did complain of ear pain today. Sorry M but you should know not to mess with a girl who is nursing a big mouth Miller and trying to enjoy the game. It would have been more fun if the Dodger cam caught us and you all could have seen it.
One of my plans at the game was to get a new, traditional style blue cotton cap, nothing fancy or pink as its the latest trend in straight women's sports gear. Alas the beer and exercise combined with the confusion of the Angels recently having changed themselves from Anaheim Angels to the Los Angeles Angels, combined with some drunk runner telling me the "This is LA Baseball" hat would certainly be a collector's item one day, led me to purchase the alleged collector's item. Visions of making back $8 on the hat on ebay one day flashed through my mind as I gleefully forked over a wad of cash and donned the cap, pointing to it as I passed Angels fans. Don't get me wrong, I like the hat because it's blue and cotton but kind of have buyer's remorse at spending $25 on a hat that no one will really get the meaning of next year. Perhaps it should say "This is what you get when you're drunk and shopping at a ball game".
Monday, May 23, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
What is the rule?
Last night I had another one of those moments where I found myself in a situation I didn't want to be in wondering how the heck I got there.
The realization hit me as I watched my 72 year-old, four-foot tall, 80 pound, chain-smoking, haven't-seen-since-I-was-six, paternal aunt sitting across the table gnawing on a pork rib. Somewhere between fascination, disgust and wondering when her dentures would fall out and what I would do if they did, I realized I didn't know why I was sitting there attempting to make conversation with a stranger who claimed she loved me.
Next to me was biodad, slamming back scotch on the rocks faster than the waitress could bring them. His sister had come to visit and he was trying to pretend like everyone was close and family-like out here in California. Unfortunately, of his four kids I was the only one gullible enough to show for the family dinner. When people get old they get lonely and try to make up for being so selfish in life by planning things like this and then they wonder why no one cares. It's really quite sad when you think about it.
I have't been so uncomfortable at dinner since my days of internet dating. I kept trying to make conversation but had nothing in common with either of these two, sad people. They just kept talking about where they had gone to dinner the previous night - right down to the salad dressing selection. It was Macaroni Grill for pete's sake! How much time can one spend discussing a Macaroni Grill meal? Forty-three minutes. Then it was on to cousins and relatives I've never met who apparantly spend much of their time inquiring about me, a person they've never met and certainly wouldn't recognize in a lineup at the trailer park. I guess it's nice that people in Gary, Indiana care about me.
Then old auntie began the death talk that consumes some older folks. She prattled on about how terrible life was, how alone she is, and how she never really did anything or had any friends and now it's too late to make anything of herself. How do you respond to that? All I could do was hope she'd finish that rib she'd been working on and that the bar would cut off biodad so we could turn tail and get out of the place.
Eventually the evening came to an end. I let out a sigh of relief when the check arrived. Then that strange thing that happens when the check arrives and a group has just eaten and no one wants to pay - everyone ignored it. I live by that rule that if you invite someone to dinner, especially an out-of-the-way dinner, you pick up the check. Not true with biodad. I was on the inside of the booth, furthest away from the check, staring at it. He glanced from it to me and back a few times then made some comment about my being a rich lawyer and him being a poor retiree. So I grabbed the bill and handed over my credit card.
See, I don't mind paying if I invite people somewhere, or if it's something I've planned or even not planned but enjoyed. I often take folks, especially my mom, to dinner. But this dinner was all biodad's doing and I didn't want to be there. Add to that the death talk, false proclamations of strangers, and rib-gnawing, and I ought to have been paid to be there.
Good thing my mother has a sense of humor about biodad and was kind enough to leave a message on the machine when I got home: "Who paid for dinner? D and I have a bet going."
The realization hit me as I watched my 72 year-old, four-foot tall, 80 pound, chain-smoking, haven't-seen-since-I-was-six, paternal aunt sitting across the table gnawing on a pork rib. Somewhere between fascination, disgust and wondering when her dentures would fall out and what I would do if they did, I realized I didn't know why I was sitting there attempting to make conversation with a stranger who claimed she loved me.
Next to me was biodad, slamming back scotch on the rocks faster than the waitress could bring them. His sister had come to visit and he was trying to pretend like everyone was close and family-like out here in California. Unfortunately, of his four kids I was the only one gullible enough to show for the family dinner. When people get old they get lonely and try to make up for being so selfish in life by planning things like this and then they wonder why no one cares. It's really quite sad when you think about it.
I have't been so uncomfortable at dinner since my days of internet dating. I kept trying to make conversation but had nothing in common with either of these two, sad people. They just kept talking about where they had gone to dinner the previous night - right down to the salad dressing selection. It was Macaroni Grill for pete's sake! How much time can one spend discussing a Macaroni Grill meal? Forty-three minutes. Then it was on to cousins and relatives I've never met who apparantly spend much of their time inquiring about me, a person they've never met and certainly wouldn't recognize in a lineup at the trailer park. I guess it's nice that people in Gary, Indiana care about me.
Then old auntie began the death talk that consumes some older folks. She prattled on about how terrible life was, how alone she is, and how she never really did anything or had any friends and now it's too late to make anything of herself. How do you respond to that? All I could do was hope she'd finish that rib she'd been working on and that the bar would cut off biodad so we could turn tail and get out of the place.
Eventually the evening came to an end. I let out a sigh of relief when the check arrived. Then that strange thing that happens when the check arrives and a group has just eaten and no one wants to pay - everyone ignored it. I live by that rule that if you invite someone to dinner, especially an out-of-the-way dinner, you pick up the check. Not true with biodad. I was on the inside of the booth, furthest away from the check, staring at it. He glanced from it to me and back a few times then made some comment about my being a rich lawyer and him being a poor retiree. So I grabbed the bill and handed over my credit card.
See, I don't mind paying if I invite people somewhere, or if it's something I've planned or even not planned but enjoyed. I often take folks, especially my mom, to dinner. But this dinner was all biodad's doing and I didn't want to be there. Add to that the death talk, false proclamations of strangers, and rib-gnawing, and I ought to have been paid to be there.
Good thing my mother has a sense of humor about biodad and was kind enough to leave a message on the machine when I got home: "Who paid for dinner? D and I have a bet going."
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Youth in Asia
I stayed home sick yesterday and decided, in the midst of my misery, it was as good a day as any to put my little cat to sleep. After all, when you're feeling low you might as well pile on the depression to get it all out at once.
No, it wasn't out of boredom, little Puffy been headed downhill since February. She wasn't meant to live in the first place (see Survival of the Fittest), and her neurological problems have taken a turn for the worse lately. As of last week she had lost feeling in her back legs and was pretty much unable to stand on her own, which meant lots of messes and cat baths. I knew it was time, I just didn't want to do it because her front end was working fine.
I put my faithful old dog Gizmo to sleep several years back and she is conveniently buried in the garden. That was a hilarious event in hindsight...My great friend J had just moved in the day before Gizzie was laid to rest. Poor J was settling into her new home when I came home from the vet crying with a dog carcass wrapped in a beach towel. We weren't expecting Gizzie to die that day. Before I knew it J was crying too, just because I was crying, and I muttered something to her, we grabbed shovels, went to the garden, and dug a hole together. J had never wielded a shovel or had a pet in her life but it was quite a bonding moment and we still laugh about our state that day - two bawling women, a dead dog, and a hole.
So yesterday I dug a hole next to Gizmo and made the appointment for Puffy. I wasn't in the room with Gizmo when she went because they were trying to save her at the time. So this time, when they asked if I wanted to "be there for Puffy" I said sure. After all, I wouldn't want her to go down among the very folks who stuck thermometers up her butt and poked her with needles all her life.
The vet, a 30-something ex-death rocker somehow misplaced in Oak View, was very nice and explained the whole procedure to me. Then, with one last poke of the needle, Puffy basically went to sleep. After checking her heartbeat, the vet said "I'll give you a moment alone" and left the little room.
A moment alone? With tears in my eyes and my dead cat with one eye stuck open laying on a table?!?! He left before I could say anything and there I was, alone, in the room, with little Puffy staring at me. It was an odd moment and I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I wondered if I ought to give last rites or saying something, but that seemed silly. Then, suddenly, Puffy twitched and burped and simultaneously scared the daylights out of me right as the vet returned. I was literally jumping back from the cat as he walked in. It must have been a sight and he tried to stifle a laugh as he explained Puffy was indeed dead. We both got a good chuckle out of it and he wrapped Puffy in a beachtowel and I took her home and buried her.
I can just imagine anthropologists in 300 years digging up my yard and finding the remains of Gizmo - a half-bald mutt with a two inch underbite - and Puffy - a retarded cat with backwards-built knees and a crooked spine - and wonder how these species ever survived. They'll never be able to piece together the mystery of why some crazy woman cared for them.
No, it wasn't out of boredom, little Puffy been headed downhill since February. She wasn't meant to live in the first place (see Survival of the Fittest), and her neurological problems have taken a turn for the worse lately. As of last week she had lost feeling in her back legs and was pretty much unable to stand on her own, which meant lots of messes and cat baths. I knew it was time, I just didn't want to do it because her front end was working fine.
I put my faithful old dog Gizmo to sleep several years back and she is conveniently buried in the garden. That was a hilarious event in hindsight...My great friend J had just moved in the day before Gizzie was laid to rest. Poor J was settling into her new home when I came home from the vet crying with a dog carcass wrapped in a beach towel. We weren't expecting Gizzie to die that day. Before I knew it J was crying too, just because I was crying, and I muttered something to her, we grabbed shovels, went to the garden, and dug a hole together. J had never wielded a shovel or had a pet in her life but it was quite a bonding moment and we still laugh about our state that day - two bawling women, a dead dog, and a hole.
So yesterday I dug a hole next to Gizmo and made the appointment for Puffy. I wasn't in the room with Gizmo when she went because they were trying to save her at the time. So this time, when they asked if I wanted to "be there for Puffy" I said sure. After all, I wouldn't want her to go down among the very folks who stuck thermometers up her butt and poked her with needles all her life.
The vet, a 30-something ex-death rocker somehow misplaced in Oak View, was very nice and explained the whole procedure to me. Then, with one last poke of the needle, Puffy basically went to sleep. After checking her heartbeat, the vet said "I'll give you a moment alone" and left the little room.
A moment alone? With tears in my eyes and my dead cat with one eye stuck open laying on a table?!?! He left before I could say anything and there I was, alone, in the room, with little Puffy staring at me. It was an odd moment and I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I wondered if I ought to give last rites or saying something, but that seemed silly. Then, suddenly, Puffy twitched and burped and simultaneously scared the daylights out of me right as the vet returned. I was literally jumping back from the cat as he walked in. It must have been a sight and he tried to stifle a laugh as he explained Puffy was indeed dead. We both got a good chuckle out of it and he wrapped Puffy in a beachtowel and I took her home and buried her.
I can just imagine anthropologists in 300 years digging up my yard and finding the remains of Gizmo - a half-bald mutt with a two inch underbite - and Puffy - a retarded cat with backwards-built knees and a crooked spine - and wonder how these species ever survived. They'll never be able to piece together the mystery of why some crazy woman cared for them.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Use the force
I called a meeting of the local chapter of the running club last night so we could get started organizing our upcoming 500th run event. The meeting was to begin at 6 pm at the local brewery. I arrived early and was lucky enough to be met by S, a quiet member of the club that I have not spent much one-on-one time with. All I knew of S was that he had an uncanny resemblance to the Unabomber, with personality to match, is a sporadic hasher, and was at last update desperately seeking female companionship.
I was already at the bar when S arrived and invited him to pull up a stool and join me for a pint. He opted to stand, sip water and avoid eye contact. He immediately began discussing the general problems with hashers - alcoholism, sex fiendism, general debauchery, and a complete and utter lack of self control. He spoke with a great deal of disdain and proceeded to spew cynicism and scorn toward the members of the group. He was particularly disenchanted with the women of the group - none of whom have apparantly been taken in by his charms - which in turn makes them evil. He named names and passed judgment on nearly every member of the crew as if armegeddon were occurring tomorrow and he had to get all this off his chest. He even said he knew about my deep, dark side, despite my usual "shiny happy" looks. This knowledge, was, of course gleened from a comment I made about something sex-related at a post-run dinner six months ago. He couldn't recall the comment, or even it's nature, only that it showed him my dark side. I was impressed by his ability to judge everyone so accurately and quickly and perplexed that he would continue to voluntarily show up to our events if he so disliked everyone and everything about it. I jokingly referred to him as Lord Vadar due to his "dark side" comments. He took offense to this. I told him he could go home if he wanted and no one would be offended but for some reason he stayed by my side - perhaps to try to find a glimmer of my alleged dark side again so he wouldn't have to accept that another single female just plain wasn't interested in him. As he prattled on I pondered his plight, then it dawned on me: he's one of them.
You know, the 30-something, single male engineers that plague the fringes of society by renting rooms from others, hoarding their own money for some unknown day when they need it to buy a cabin to live in Montana, and in the meantime spend their days searching for a June Cleaveresque woman who is certainly waiting around the bend to marry them.
Sure enough, with three questions I was able to peg him: Age: 34; Job description: Engineer; Goal in Life: Marry a demure by day/seductress by night school teacher who will dote on him, bpop out four children (one with asthma so they have to install HEPA filters and worry constantly about), and drive the pre-purchased minivan which she will drive with a permanent, slightly enhanced Crest-whitened smile at all times. If I had a nickel for every guy like this I've met in the past five years I'd be retired.
Still, I listened to him rant about the disfunction of our club. When I asked him why he came at all he said he enjoyed it for the exercise and that he liked the men in the group. He said the women were too "messed up" for him and all "binge drinkers". The only woman he admitted he has no problem with just so happens to be much older than he, rather unattractive by conventional standards, and someone he considers 'one of the guys'. I inquired about the double standard for men/unattractive women vs. attractive women and he didn't catch the meaning. I then advised that perhaps the club isn't the best place for him to look for a mate. After all, anyone in the club will tell you not to date another member.
Alas we were saved by the arrival of M and C, two other members. We all sat down for our meeting and S and I decided to split a pizza. S contributed nothing to the meeting and merely sat there eating his half of the pizza. When the check came he literally split the bill - the pizza was $9.50 plus tax and tip. He gave me $6.00 and told me I owe him $1.00, so I gave him $.50 and he said I still owe him $1.00. I threw $21 on the table and left. I guess I'll never learn.
I was already at the bar when S arrived and invited him to pull up a stool and join me for a pint. He opted to stand, sip water and avoid eye contact. He immediately began discussing the general problems with hashers - alcoholism, sex fiendism, general debauchery, and a complete and utter lack of self control. He spoke with a great deal of disdain and proceeded to spew cynicism and scorn toward the members of the group. He was particularly disenchanted with the women of the group - none of whom have apparantly been taken in by his charms - which in turn makes them evil. He named names and passed judgment on nearly every member of the crew as if armegeddon were occurring tomorrow and he had to get all this off his chest. He even said he knew about my deep, dark side, despite my usual "shiny happy" looks. This knowledge, was, of course gleened from a comment I made about something sex-related at a post-run dinner six months ago. He couldn't recall the comment, or even it's nature, only that it showed him my dark side. I was impressed by his ability to judge everyone so accurately and quickly and perplexed that he would continue to voluntarily show up to our events if he so disliked everyone and everything about it. I jokingly referred to him as Lord Vadar due to his "dark side" comments. He took offense to this. I told him he could go home if he wanted and no one would be offended but for some reason he stayed by my side - perhaps to try to find a glimmer of my alleged dark side again so he wouldn't have to accept that another single female just plain wasn't interested in him. As he prattled on I pondered his plight, then it dawned on me: he's one of them.
You know, the 30-something, single male engineers that plague the fringes of society by renting rooms from others, hoarding their own money for some unknown day when they need it to buy a cabin to live in Montana, and in the meantime spend their days searching for a June Cleaveresque woman who is certainly waiting around the bend to marry them.
Sure enough, with three questions I was able to peg him: Age: 34; Job description: Engineer; Goal in Life: Marry a demure by day/seductress by night school teacher who will dote on him, bpop out four children (one with asthma so they have to install HEPA filters and worry constantly about), and drive the pre-purchased minivan which she will drive with a permanent, slightly enhanced Crest-whitened smile at all times. If I had a nickel for every guy like this I've met in the past five years I'd be retired.
Still, I listened to him rant about the disfunction of our club. When I asked him why he came at all he said he enjoyed it for the exercise and that he liked the men in the group. He said the women were too "messed up" for him and all "binge drinkers". The only woman he admitted he has no problem with just so happens to be much older than he, rather unattractive by conventional standards, and someone he considers 'one of the guys'. I inquired about the double standard for men/unattractive women vs. attractive women and he didn't catch the meaning. I then advised that perhaps the club isn't the best place for him to look for a mate. After all, anyone in the club will tell you not to date another member.
Alas we were saved by the arrival of M and C, two other members. We all sat down for our meeting and S and I decided to split a pizza. S contributed nothing to the meeting and merely sat there eating his half of the pizza. When the check came he literally split the bill - the pizza was $9.50 plus tax and tip. He gave me $6.00 and told me I owe him $1.00, so I gave him $.50 and he said I still owe him $1.00. I threw $21 on the table and left. I guess I'll never learn.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
It's Miller Time
Wow! I was just checking my e-mail here and found that last week Mrs. G. Miller, Proud Navy Wife, posted a patriotic (?), passionate and utterly priceless comment in reference to Extreme Makeover DMV Edition, a post of mine from six months ago. Here's the text of her comment:
At ease Mrs. Miller, at ease...
As for me: Ignorant? Almost always. Humiliated? Almost never.
At 7:54 AM, G.Miller said…
You have some nerve blaming the navy on your picture and your bad drinking and eating habits.My husband is in the navy and they do NOT condone drinking in excess.No one FORCED you to keep those glasses after you got out of boot camp,you couldve got another pair free ON the navy that you so easily put down.You also CHOSE not to get another drivers license so thats your fault also.They also do NOT force women to wear "butch" haircuts,I have seen many,many women in the navy with longer hair in a bun and know its not mandatory to cut it in a crew cut,that was your choice.Your ignorance is your own fault for your humiliation.Dont blame our Military!
Proud to be a Navy Wife,
G.Miller
At ease Mrs. Miller, at ease...
As for me: Ignorant? Almost always. Humiliated? Almost never.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Togas, nipple enforcement and early morning regrets
I spent Sunday afternoon wrapped in 12 feet of purple cotton, a gold ribbon holding things together as I ran around Ventura with a bunch of similarly outfitted runners at our local Hash House Harriers' annual Toga run.
I really don't know why people like to dress up so much, but they come out in droves for these costume events, especially toga runs. It's always great to see such spirited, creative participation. One lady even rented a Cleopatra outfit, complete with armbands and headpiece. Not sure if she found her Mark Anthony, but I know many of the participants enjoyed the Dionysian revelry.
The run started at the old City Hall. Our first beer check was at a now forever boycotted local establishment called Winchesters. We had an area in back reserved with pitchers of beer lined up on the table awaiting our arrival. Much to our toga swathed chagrin, we were stopped at the door. Apparantly the establishment, known for its busty and scantily clad waitresses, decided that nipples were unacceptable. Since many of the gentlemen wore true togas with nothing underneath, each had a nipple exposed. The manager stood his ground and said no one showing nipples or armpits could enter. Thankfully, hashers are a resourceful crew and then men wearing shirts under their togas ran in, chugged a beer, then swapped shirts with others awaiting their chance to cover up and chug. This pissed the manager off even more but with several lawyers among the Romans he couldn't argue his way out of allowing the men in sheets and t-shirts in to chug and run. Had he simply let us all into the designated area for a quick chug his ambience would have been far less desecrated for a shorter period of time. But you've got to admit it's fun to find loopholes that cause grief to anyone enforcing nipple coverage.
Next stop was up the hill to the cross for Jello shots then a vodka-induced scuttle down the side of the hill to Paddys, a local gay bar. By this time it was 6:00 or so and as we approached Paddys I saw by the men outside that it was Ventura Bears night there. The Ventura Bears are a club of gay men who like other large and hairy men, hence the name "bears". The hashers are for the most part quite adamant heterosexuals but we are a fun and tolerant group. I just happened to arrive at Paddys along with about five of our largest, hairiest male runners who by some coincidence were wearing some of the most attractive togas. This provided for great entertainment and confusion and a plan to coordinate next year's toga run with Paddys' own toga party if possible. That should be fun...
After Paddys it was on to the end for the festivities. I do not usually get drunk at these events but those jello shots atop the hill did me in. For the first time in ages I have gaps in my memory as to the events that took place. I do know I got a ride home, ordered a pizza, and somehow managed to wake up early enough to make it to a deposition Monday morning in LA.
And I thought I stopped that sort of behavior in my 20's...At least I didn't end up like R, who yesterday confessed who he ended up waking up next to Monday morning. After going through every acceptable female in the group to figure who he may have bedded, I was surprised to find it was one of those both he and I least expected. Let's just say there was an ounce of regret on his part and a ton of laughter on mine.
I really don't know why people like to dress up so much, but they come out in droves for these costume events, especially toga runs. It's always great to see such spirited, creative participation. One lady even rented a Cleopatra outfit, complete with armbands and headpiece. Not sure if she found her Mark Anthony, but I know many of the participants enjoyed the Dionysian revelry.
The run started at the old City Hall. Our first beer check was at a now forever boycotted local establishment called Winchesters. We had an area in back reserved with pitchers of beer lined up on the table awaiting our arrival. Much to our toga swathed chagrin, we were stopped at the door. Apparantly the establishment, known for its busty and scantily clad waitresses, decided that nipples were unacceptable. Since many of the gentlemen wore true togas with nothing underneath, each had a nipple exposed. The manager stood his ground and said no one showing nipples or armpits could enter. Thankfully, hashers are a resourceful crew and then men wearing shirts under their togas ran in, chugged a beer, then swapped shirts with others awaiting their chance to cover up and chug. This pissed the manager off even more but with several lawyers among the Romans he couldn't argue his way out of allowing the men in sheets and t-shirts in to chug and run. Had he simply let us all into the designated area for a quick chug his ambience would have been far less desecrated for a shorter period of time. But you've got to admit it's fun to find loopholes that cause grief to anyone enforcing nipple coverage.
Next stop was up the hill to the cross for Jello shots then a vodka-induced scuttle down the side of the hill to Paddys, a local gay bar. By this time it was 6:00 or so and as we approached Paddys I saw by the men outside that it was Ventura Bears night there. The Ventura Bears are a club of gay men who like other large and hairy men, hence the name "bears". The hashers are for the most part quite adamant heterosexuals but we are a fun and tolerant group. I just happened to arrive at Paddys along with about five of our largest, hairiest male runners who by some coincidence were wearing some of the most attractive togas. This provided for great entertainment and confusion and a plan to coordinate next year's toga run with Paddys' own toga party if possible. That should be fun...
After Paddys it was on to the end for the festivities. I do not usually get drunk at these events but those jello shots atop the hill did me in. For the first time in ages I have gaps in my memory as to the events that took place. I do know I got a ride home, ordered a pizza, and somehow managed to wake up early enough to make it to a deposition Monday morning in LA.
And I thought I stopped that sort of behavior in my 20's...At least I didn't end up like R, who yesterday confessed who he ended up waking up next to Monday morning. After going through every acceptable female in the group to figure who he may have bedded, I was surprised to find it was one of those both he and I least expected. Let's just say there was an ounce of regret on his part and a ton of laughter on mine.
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